


Fool Me Twice

by Pastel_Teacups



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Illusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 03:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20575691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Teacups/pseuds/Pastel_Teacups
Summary: Peter doesn't save the day, get the girl, or best the baddie. He onlythinkshe does.





	Fool Me Twice

Quentin had been running Peter’s program for the last three months, and he was pretty impressed with himself. The technology isn’t meant to sustain itself, wasn’t designed to be a complete, 24/7, immersive _reality_. But with some tweaking and adjusting he’d managed it. Managed it very well, if he did say so himself. 

Three months since London. Dropping the illusion and revealing the drones to the world had been a particularly interesting although risky idea, and it’d worked like a charm. Running the story that Spider-Man was the evil genius behind it all, creating threats to kill off his adversaries and make himself the big-time hero he always wanted to be - even the fucking _Avengers_ bought it (the living ones, anyways). And Quentin - _Mysterio_ \- got to be the hero who put him down. Only because he had to - it would haunt him forever, as would the deaths of his beloved wife and daughter from another Earth. 

It’d all been so easy. 

Sure, the idea of actually killing the kid had its merits, but Quentin needed a lab rat. And who knew, maybe he’d be of some use in the future. Spider-Man returning, guilty, asking Mysterio for guidance and begging for a place in society once more. Or maybe he could toss the suit and stay Peter Parker, unknown teen instead of superhero once more. Quentin was still working on the storyline. 

In the meantime, creating Peter’s personal experience of London - the one where he really _was_ the hero, really did save the day - was a breeze. The kid was so adorable, so predictable, so _gullible_. He’d gotten everything he wanted. The girl, his friends, the knowledge that he could handle _Avengers-level threats. Everything_ he wanted, and he didn’t even stop to think about how suspiciously well it all fell into place. Didn’t spare a glance at Quentin Beck’s prone body on the bridge, didn’t even notice the small glitch on the plane he’d been falling asleep on (One drone out of line. Not the end of the world, in this case. Quentin was only tricking one person this time, after all). He’d been holding Peter in this abandoned football stadium for three months and he hadn’t noticed a single thing amiss. 

It had been fun to get him here, see what exactly he could get away with, how far Peter’s mind would stretch to fill the gaps in the story, but it was starting to get a little old. The novelty’s worn off, Quentin supposes, and the cracks were starting to show as he lost interest in the project. It’s the morning that Peter wakes from a nightmare, shaking and sweating and stumbling to his feet, that Quentin finally calls it. “Cut it.”

“What?” 

Riva’s such a twitchy guy. If Quentin could find anyone else who could do his job as well as he could, Quentin would have a drone on him in seconds. 

“I said cut it, Bill. Cut the illusion.” By now Peter’s in the make-believe bathroom, brushing his teeth and staring at himself in the mirror like he’ll be able to see Quentin in the background if he looks hard enough. “Obviously this isn’t sustainable. Secure the building and then let him see.” 

Riva gives him the same weary look he’d given him after his little outburst leading up to London and locks down the building, cuts the illusion out just as Quentin makes it down the stadium stairs and onto the padded astroturf. It’s going to get in his shoes, he realizes with a little grimace. It’s worth it, however, to watch Peter’s sweet little face twist as the world melts away; first confusion, then worry, then downright terror when he his eyes sweep over Beck. The realization dawns on him that he’d been living in a bubble, in a _stadium_ this entire time, and the toothbrush falls from his hand and settles in the artificial grass (having drones place real props as Peter moves through the apartment - Janice’s genius, to Beck’s surprise). 

He doesn’t say anything, thought Quentin isn’t surprised by his speechlessness. He’s dressed down today, in his “normal” clothes as the media calls it. Mysterio will keep telling them that they dressed the same on his Earth as they dress here and they’ll keep running the story that he’s “acclimating,” that he’s some alien. Thor doesn’t call him an alien, but he accepts Mysterio’s backstory immediately. It either means that the God isn’t as smart as he seems, or that there really is a multiverse and Quentin just happens to be running a con in one. “Try not to be upset.” 

It’s funny, even to him. He doesn’t make an effort to remain serious, has a pleased look on his face while he waits for Peter’s response. He’s pretty proud of himself, all things considered. He’d worried that Peter wouldn’t be so easily tricked the second time around. He should’ve known it’d be easy - he’s just a kid. 

“You - you died. You were dead.” Peter stutters, still in his pajamas, eyes already red-rimmed from tears that haven’t yet spilled over. He looks so goddamned cute, Quentin almost can’t resist the urge to reach out and pinch his cheeks or lean in and kiss him. He maintains himself for now, listens to Peter’s babbling. “You were dead. I watched you die, I asked EDITH-” 

“Oh, this?” Quentin asks, tugging the glasses from his pocket and waving them around a little. He knows it’s cruel, but he kinda likes the way Peter’s face shifts from terror, to self-hatred, to a healthy mix of both. “Sorry. But you know what they say, fool me twice.” 

Peter looks so devastated, but Quentin can see the cogs turning behind his eyes. He has questions, worries, a million different thoughts running through his mind. Quentin checks his watch. “How long was I gone?” 

His voice has gotten smaller, sadder, like he’s realizing all the things he could’ve missed. Quentin could’ve had him in there for _years_ for all he knows, could’ve brought in his friends and shot them execution style without him being any the wiser. 

He looks so pathetic, like a kicked puppy, that Quentin has to take some pity on him. “Three months.” He says, stepping closer. In the earpiece he perpetually wears now so that he doesn’t accidentally lapse his own cover story while out and about, Riva tells him Parker’s heart rate is spiking, that he might to try to attack. Quentin doesn’t care, doesn’t think he will. “I need you to listen to me, Peter. I can help you.” 

“Help me?” Peter asks, eyes on the ground now, searching for something to ground him but landing on his toothbrush, currently the only corporeal thing in the area that’s held its form after the illusion dropped. “You did this to me, you don’t want to help me, you’re-”

“But I do,” Quentin insists, keeping his voice calm and level, putting his hands in his pockets and taking a step closer. “I do, Peter. I needed to do this to protect you, to keep you from ruining the plan. But now I want you to help me. I want us to help each other.” 

He wants to reach out and touch his face, knows Peter would lean into it despite his better judgement. He doesn’t, yet, waits just a little longer. Peter’s face shifts again, still trying to put the pieces together. “Where are my friends?”

“Safe.” They are, truly, just mourning. They’ll be thrilled to find Peter alive, even with his alleged crimes. “You can see them, soon. But you have to play by my rules. The world is different now. People won’t believe what you tell them.” 

People will believe anything these days. Quentin even thinks that with enough evidence, which Peter has a decent amount of, they’d believe that Mysterio’s a fake, too. It’s why these moments are so crucial, why this conversation is so important. He can’t help it anymore and reaches out to touch the boy’s face, watches as he leans in just a little bit. So sweet. Sweet as the night Quentin kissed him senseless outside his setup bar, the way the boy melted in his hands and then ran off to tell his schoolmate how he felt about her. Quentin was eighty percent sure he’d have Peter eating out of his hand before the day was out. 

“What do I have to do?” He asks after a long moment, eyes finally straying up to Quentin. The tears he’s been holding in are slipping down his cheeks, now, and he flexes his fingers by his sides, a movement Riva warns him about quietly. “What do you want me to do?” 

The end of the day may have been too modest a goal. Quentin gives Peter a smile, the reassuring kind, trying to make him feel a little safer. Quentin needs to get him out of this open space and into a real apartment, somewhere he’ll feel a little more at home. “Spider-Man is dead. You can’t go back to him.” He explains, softly, watching the boy shift a little in pain. “You can work for me. We can be friends, help each other out. I could use someone like you on my team.”

Peter’s always been the sort to like some kind words. Quentin telling him that he’s good, that he’s useful, makes him perk up if only a tiny bit. Still, Quentin can see it behind his eyes. He’s considering it. 

“You can see your friends. You can go back out into the world. You just have to work with me, baby.” The _baby_ is what gets him. He still looks unsure, upset, but Quentin cups his jaw just a little more firmly and he reacts to it, seems desperate enough now that his friends have been involved that he’d do anything. It’s as easy as tricking the rest of the world. 

\-- 

Peter integrates himself well into his team, if a little awkwardly at first. Most of his crew either distrusts him or pities him too much to take him seriously, but he quickly proves himself as one of the brightest among them. Quentin enjoys watching him delve into the work, grow more and more invested in finding Beck new ways to fool the world. It becomes a challenge to him, more than anything, and more and more often he finds himself at Quentin’s apartment after hours, discussing plans and tech. He’s thinking ahead, about what will happen in the event of a _real_ threat, and Quentin thinks it’s brilliant.He’s brilliant. 

He’s allowed to see his friends, finish school, and no one’s any the wiser. Those who knew his secret identity allow themselves to move past it when he tells them he’s giving Spider-Man up. Quentin crafts a story for Peter to tell them about taking a wrong turn in his super career, meeting some unsavory individuals who were trying to trick everyone into thinking that Mysterio was a fraud. Peter’s a little sour when he tells them, but they buy it nevertheless. Quentin makes a few appearances, solidifies his friendliness with Peter. Everyone moves on. 

It’s three years into having Peter back that the media picks up a downright juicy headline, and one that Quentin didn’t even plant: Mysterio, hero to the world, dating college student from Queens. Pictures surface of them walking down the street with their arms slung around each other, of the two of them kissing outside Peter’s apartment building. Quentin doesn’t confirm or deny the relationship, but maybe he holds his right hand man a little closer on the streets. He makes a mental note to be more careful while the news is hot; it might prompt cameramen or paparazzi to peek in his windows, and he can’t exactly risk his cover blowing up this deep. 

He settles into bed beside Peter the night after the news hits, watching the boy push a hand through his hair and curl up under the blankets, looking up at Beck with a little furrow between his brows. “What’s wrong?” Quentin asks, reaching out to smooth the space with his thumb. 

“. . . How do I know this is real?” He asks after a moment, voice small. He asks this sometimes, and Quentin’s heart may or may not ache just a little when he does. Sometimes he’ll wake up from illusion nightmares. It’s the consequences of doing what Quentin did to Peter, but prizes have prices. “How do I know I’m not still in that stadium?” 

Quentin reaches out and pulls him close. He thinks about it - maybe it’s all an illusion, even to him, created by someone even smarter than the two of them. But Quentin doesn’t think it is, doesn’t think anyone has that power but him. “Can’t do this in an illusion.” He hums, leaning in to press his lips to Peter’s lips, then his cheeks, then his forehead. “It’s real. Promise. I couldn’t make this up in my wildest dreams.” 

It’s the kind of thing that gets Peter to smile, the kind of syrup-sweet he’s always been a sucker for. It does bring Quentin a quick surge of pride though, letting Peter tuck himself against his side and set a hand on his chest, feeling the beat of Quentin’s heart. He falls asleep so easily, and Quentin has some quiet moments to look down at his soft brown curls and watch the rise and fall of his chest, counting his breath until his own eyes get heavy. He’s so lucky. Well, luck’s got nothing to do with it. He got here because he was fucking _smart,_ because he knew what needed to be sarcrified for the good of the world, for everyone’s best interests. But, he regards just before the waves of sleep take over, he really might’ve gotten lucky with meeting Peter. Really lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my first fic in around two years, so let me know if you liked it! Comments + Kudos are always greatly appreciated!


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